An Interview with a Ballet Rat
by Blonde Songbird
Summary: That's when I saw her... She was obviously prepared to jump! Erik is dead: Can three simple words create madness? ...Can it drive someone to suicide? Rated teen for morbidity. Please R&R!


_Author's Note. In which, the authoress explains her long absence and apologizes:_

_Gasp, y'all! I'm back! I hope my fellow authors and authoress' are still here. I know I've been rather absent, but that is because of two reasons: one, being that I became extreeeeeeeeeeeeeeemely busy; and two, being that ever since the '04 movie came out, Mary-Sues have appeared very suddenly. Now, don't get me wrong, the movie also did introduce people to the story, causing them to go out and buy the book and learn everything else about the famous story – I know a few actually :) but it did create some Mary-Sues as well. So, I took a break, and I have taken this absence to improve my writing (there's always room for improvement!)! Now, I'm back and excited to be here. YAYYY! I'd like to thank the reviewers who did still comment on my phics, for I loved getting those randomly. It made me smile :) And thank you to my other faithful reviewers who have me under favorite authors, and such. And with that said, here goes the first phic I've done in a long time and many more to come! Mucho love to all y'all, and God bless!_

Disclaimer: Me? Own Phantom? If only... Also, I know I got the little accent mark in Christine's last name wrong. My computer is spastic… Just like ME:)

Setting: Opera Populaire

Based off of: mostly Leroux's Phantom of the Opera when it comes to physical descriptions.

Personality wise: mostly ALW... this phic is just basically a mix of Kay, Leroux, and ALW... ) Fun stuff!

I love Leroux the best, but I thought it would be fun to mix them all together :)

_Interview with a Ballet Rat_

**Chapter One**

The Inspector took a seat, his eyes resting on the young girl before him. Her raven black hair framed her petite face, as she returned his gaze... Her eyes --so dark that it matched the color of her hair -- welled with such sorrow and grief that he could no longer bear to look at her directly. Retrieving a pad and a pen from his jacket pocket, he cleared his throat.

"And what is your name?"

"Mademoiselle Meg Giry." She replied in the softest of tones, an emotion flickering through her eyes -- an emotion he could not yet identify.

"Ah. I thought so." He mumbled, scratching the name down, the black ink imprinting itself on the paper. "Now, Mlle. Giry, I know this is exceptionally difficult for you. However, it is important that you inform me of everything you saw -- exactly as you saw it."

The girl quivered, closing her eyes for a brief moment. She brought a cup of tea, which she had been provided with, to her lips and permitted the hot liquid to travel easily down her throat. Nodding silently, Meg lifted her eyes to meet the detective's face. The emotions flooding through her facial expression and eyes held his gaze intently, and she parted her crimson lips to speak.

"I was leaving the Opera Populaire, Monsieur." The ballerina began shakily, wringing the shawl in her little hands. "And it had begun to snow. Instinctively, I looked up." She hesitantly paused, biting her lip and beginning to chew incessantly. "That's when I saw her... standing on the roof a-and leaning over the railing. She was obviously prepared to… to _jump_."

"Saw who?"

A sob.

"_Christine Daaè_."

Cloaked in all black and his fedora covering his face, Erik sauntered through the Parisian streets. The cobblestone below him was now covered with a blanket of snow, crunching as he moved across it. Adjusting his fedora, he emitted a soft sigh. Of course, he had seen his own add in the paper, while he slipped past other Parisians. He had seen the obituaries... he had read those three ominous words: _Erik is dead._ Making his way along the side of the Opera Garnier, he relaxed a bit, now out of society. But inquiries of whether or not Christine had discovered the news swam through his mind. What would be her reaction? Would joy overcome her? Or grief?

He shook his head, silently scolding himself. Why in God's name would she be despondent over his "death"? He was simply fooling himself. If anything, relief would wash over the girl -- after everything that had transpired between them.

Suddenly, the Opera Ghost's graceful steps came to an abrupt halt, as his gaze befell a petite body lying in the snow... However, the snow around this form was no longer white but crimson. His brow knitted together, Erik gradually approached the sight, but as he grew closer, his pace quickened. His heartbeat accelerated, and his eyes widened. So familiar...

"Please, God, no..." He begged silently.

Dropping to his knees, he brushed the scarlet snow off of the figure, and to his horror, revealing its identity.

Christine.

His lungs were caving in. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see straight. He couldn't move without aching terribly.

"Oh, God... No!" He choked out, pushing away a blood-soaked ringlet from her pallid face. Her azure eyes, now lifeless, stared at him, as if asking him a question he could not answer. Now freely sobbing, he lifted his head to glare at the ledge she had apparently jumped from, realizing that she had not only died but had also ended her own life. "Christine, my child, my love, why did you do this? Why did you end your beautiful, young life? Why, my angel, why!"

As soon as he said this, his melancholy gaze drifted to her right hand, which tightly gripped a small shred of paper. Tears clouding his eyes and journeying down the crevasse of his mask, he gently removed the item, bringing it close to his face. He released a shaky breath, drinking in the words inscribed on the paper. Forming his hand into a fist around the item, he rammed his clenched fist into the stone wall in anger, causing blood to trickle down his hand and mingle with his fallen angel. Is this why she had jumped? Were these words the reason for her deadly plunge? Releasing newfound tears, he scanned the paper once more, in order to reassure himself that he had seen correctly. Now, not only did horror and grief tear at him, but guilt accompanied them, mocking him -- tormenting him. For those words he read were not the words he had expected... For those words were indeed his own obituary.

_Erik is dead._

And now... so was his beloved angel.


End file.
